


Rose's Place

by fairmanor



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: (oh my god they were roommates), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, M/M, POV David Rose, Patrick Brewer loves David Rose, Recreational Drug Use, and they were ROOMMATES, different first meeting, just pretend the motel has two floors okay, just two idiot business partners who hate each other before they go into business, the motel is more of a long-stay hostel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29944779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairmanor/pseuds/fairmanor
Summary: None of them had really intended this to happen, nor did they anticipate it. To David’s relief, the news of their staying here never did get too much further than those old message boards, but some miscommunication down the line had everyone assuming that the motel was a place for longterm stay. Stevie would have corrected it if David hadn’t refused to let her.An AU where the motel sort of turns into a hostel, and Patrick decides to stay there instead of living with Ray.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 18
Kudos: 135





	Rose's Place

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> Okay, so this was meant to be a <1k one shot and it turned into this. Oh well, I really enjoyed writing and I hope you enjoy it too!

It happens soon after the first time the Roses try to leave.

They’d told everyone they were selling the town, the deal fell through, David ran away. Of course it was going to be the talk of the town – and, for that matter, the county. It wasn’t long before it started making the local news, doing the rounds on the dark stuffy corners of the internet where Elmdale citizens resided on message boards and old forums that hadn’t updated their format since 1999.

David finds himself spending a long time on those forums in the months after it happens, chasing information and gossip about himself like he used to in a world he barely remembers now. Thankfully, the residents of the wider Elms and Schitt’s Creek don’t have the same carefully calculated vitriol and publicity manipulation skills as the professional gossip blogs that used to hound him 24/7, so he’s never too offended. It’s mainly a lot of people recognising Alexis from her TV show and vague interest that lasts a minute before they forget about it.

“David, no one’s going to care that some random famous family has washed up in the motel,” Stevie assures him as they’re trawling through the message boards one night. There’s a particularly baffling string of conversation that goes:

_Wait, isn’t David Rose the one who got kicked out of his own 21 st birthday party in LA? _

_I’m going to head over to the motel in Schitt’s Creek to ask for some money._

_HOT SINGLES IN YOUR AREA CONTACT G.C. AT 555-3452-09._

David scoffs and doubles back, pushing Stevie and the laptop away from him. “Um, excuse me. Who’s washed up?”

“I didn’t say you _were_ washed up, I just said you were – actually, yeah. Okay, fine. I said what I said.” Stevie snatches the bottle of wine they’re sharing between them off him and takes a swig. “But seriously, if it’s people from your old life you’re worrying about, you don’t need to. This has barely even made county news, and these message boards are so old you’d have to physically clear your laptop of dust before getting any valuable info from them.”

“How do you know I’m worried about people from my old life?” David asks defensively. It still feels strange to say that. _Old life._ It’s damning and scary. It means truly leaving behind everything that came before in favour of boring, damp nights with cheap wine and message boards with hot singles who are probably anything but.

“Because you’re sat up with me at midnight drinking wine and clinging onto the most depressing part of the entire internet to look for potential leads,” Stevie says.

And David can’t argue with that, so he just sits back and watches Stevie scroll. The dreary conversation shifts from the Roses to some argument about the shampoo in Brebner’s and bags of dog poop, and David is ready to abandon the crusty old computer before Stevie nudges him to attention again.

“Look at this one.”

David peers at the screen.

_YU2007: Is that place in Schitt’s Creek a hostel? Can people go to stay there for a prolonged amount of time?_

Stevie rolls her eyes. “Don’t get your hopes up, buddy.”

They watch a reply come through:

 _Jake_Richards: No, it’s a motel. The Roses have been staying there for a while, but I think they’re a one-off. If you’re looking for places to stay, my door is always open._ 😉

“People better not start getting the idea that they can get a free ride here,” Stevie says. “I have enough on my plate with –”

Suddenly, the reception door bursts open and cuts her off. A harried looking girl is stood in the doorway, her hair plastered down by rain and two overfull bags hanging in her hands.

“Is this the Rose’s place? The motel?”

“I, uh –”

“It is, why?” David says.

The girl gives a loud sigh of relief and kicks the door closed behind her. “Thank God. I can _not_ take another second in that house with my mom and her dumb boyfriend. I have money, I can pay you in the morning. Which rooms are free?”

Stevie looks taken aback by the girl’s outburst, but David feels something spark deep inside him. He sees himself, alone and afraid and cluttered with bags. He wonders what might have happened if he had come here alone, remembers all the times he _was_ alone at her age, and takes over the computer for a moment.

“Room 2 is free,” he says. “That’s a single room isn’t it, Stevie?”

Stevie turns to him, and they exchange the most heated silent conversation David has ever had. He still understands every word.

_What are you doing?_

_She’s like fifteen, Stevie! We can’t just turn her away!_

_This isn’t a hostel. Our average customer stay time is three and a half days._

_Who cares? Not everyone can be your average customer._

_…_

_Yeah, try and argue with that one, Stevie._

Stevie sighs, clicking open the Room 2 box on the screen before turning to the girl.

“Can I take a name?”

* * *

None of them had really intended this to happen, nor did they anticipate it. To David’s relief, the news of their staying here never did get too much further than those old message boards, but some miscommunication down the line had everyone assuming that the motel was a place for longterm stay. Stevie would have corrected it if David hadn’t refused to let her.

As more and more people started to turn up at the door, all asking _is this the Rose’s place,_ some tourist-like and others desperate, David is relieved to notice that Stevie starts to take it in her stride. Maybe she sees a bit of herself in all the stroppy, hate-this-town teenagers who turn up at the door. Maybe she’s finally found her calling. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

“I had no idea what I wanted to do with this motel,” she says to David one day, standing at the entrance of the honeymoon suite as its garish bed and awful ceiling mirror are being stripped away to make space for a common room. “Now I think I’ve got it.”

The Rose’s Place catches on as a sort of unofficial name. “Stevie’s Place” was a belated second suggestion, but Stevie shut that one down pretty quickly. Alexis opens up a new forum and website for it, providing updates on the renovations and letting new residents know where they can park their cars. Elm Glen Elementary School even creates a special Rose’s Place class for the kids weaving in and out of education, getting them caught up on everything while their globetrotting parents take conference calls or do weird dances under the moonlight.

David is relieved that Stevie is embracing the change, and not only because it’s Stevie and he not-so-secretly thinks she deserves the world. It’s because he also couldn’t bear having to take the reins on this place. He may have accidentally lit the fuse, but this kind of service is not one he wants to stoke forever. If David were ever to start a business then he’d like his customers in and out within ten minutes, thank you very much.

Every night has been surprisingly peaceful since the motel shifted from its previous one-stop-shop into this hostel of sorts, but tonight has David feeling especially optimistic. His parents are on a night-time test drive of their new car, Alexis is out somewhere with Twyla, and the loudest resident moved out yesterday to complete their walking tour of the area. So David’s in bed early, tucked up and relishing the–

_Quiet._

David exhales heavily. He thought too soon.

There’s guitar coming from above his head, right from the place he likes to stare at on the ceiling as he tries to sleep.

He’s getting more used to familiar, repetitive noise nowadays – he knows the person next door does their workout at 5pm every other night, so he tries to stay out then – but this is different. It’s new. And it’s especially loud.

David lies there a second longer, hoping it was maybe a recording or someone moving their guitar from one side of the room to the other, but then it starts again. He grinds his teeth, every muscle clenching up in irritation. It sounds like it’s coming through the _vents_ it’s so in his face. He thought he’d already had enough before the person starts to sing and that is _it,_ David is up and he’s marching his way through the reception and up the stairs.

There are only two rooms upstairs at the moment (though Stevie has plans for more), so David knows exactly which door to knock on. He slams his fist against it as hard as he can three times, then again when they don’t answer. He’s halfway through his seventh knock when the door swings open.

He’s not at all what David was expecting. Usually when he has to tell people to shut up it’s obnoxious high students with blonde dreadlocks or kids with blunt eyeliner listening to death metal. This is – well, he’s just a guy, really. He’s wearing a faded York University hoodie and sweatpants. For some reason it fills David with irritation. He looks like he’d actually settled in for the night to disturb other people’s sleep.

“Excuse me?” the man says, his eyes narrowing, which is precisely when a) David realises he said that last part out loud and b) he does not appreciate being addressed in that tone.

“You heard me,” David says heatedly. “This isn’t just a one-night place, you know. You can’t disrupt other people’s routines with loud noises at” – he looks at his watch-less wrist – “11 o’clock at night.”

“I was barely doing anything!” the man argues. “It needed tuning up, so I was just testing it afterwards. Jeez.”

“Oh, that was tuned?” David says. He knows it’s a low blow, but he doesn’t care. With any luck, this man could be gone in a week or two. “You might want to get your ears tested instead of your guitar.”

The man shoots him a hard glare before slamming the door in David’s face. David would be quite proud of that one if it wasn’t for the very deliberate chord shredding that the man starts up as soon as David gets back to his room, and he doesn’t let up all night.

* * *

Everything after that happens so fast.

It’s nothing more than pointless bitchery, but still. David doesn’t have a lot of that around him these days, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make the most of it.

This man – Patrick, as Stevie informed him after David forced her to show him the records – keeps popping up where he’s not wanted, stealing the last of the milk and the laundry detergent and bumping into David every morning. David ribs Patrick for nearly washing one of his knits by accident and Patrick shoves grocery receipts under David’s door, demanding recompense for the breakfast foods that David finished to spite him.

In the past few months, David has really gotten to know everyone staying at the hostel. There’s Carlo, the fitness guy who’s spending his spring and summer here to train for a triathlon, there’s Honey and Gemma and their two babies who play on the lawn outside the motel. And now Patrick, apparently, who doesn’t seem to be budging anytime soon. There’s a rumour that he’s looking for work in the area, but David isn’t about to go and ask him that.

Well. He did try once, but it started with David turning too fast around a corner to follow him and ended with iced coffee all over Patrick’s freshly washed pillowcases.

“Ah! What the hell, David?”

“Well I clearly didn’t do it on purpose!”

“Great,” Patrick mutters, shaking his pillowcases out and cringing when droplets of coffee hit his T-shirt. “You know, you can’t complain about me using up the last of the laundry detergent when it’s your fault that I need it.”

David scoffs, crossing his arms. “I think you’re very rude.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, really. I came round here to try and make conversation with you, because we’re living together and I thought it would be nice, but you can’t even laugh about one accident so I don’t think I will.”

Patrick balls up the stained fabric and throws them at David’s feet. “You know what? You clean them.”

God, he’s so _petty._ He’s got the kind of face that looks like it’s battle-worn from too many pedantic business nerd arguments at university, and now even the slightest confrontation sends him into attack mode. (Although, David privately admits, he’s not much better himself. He has the same issue, only he honed his craft in SoHo at seven in the morning with TMZ cameras in his face.)

David kicks the pillowcase after him as Patrick walks away, biting his lip hard so he doesn’t physically screech at him.

Stevie  
  
Okay, two things.  
  
a) Patrick’s left a dirty pillowcase on the floor outside the laundrette.   
  
b) you need to kick Patrick out. Now.  
  
😱  
  
even the notion!!! the whole place would riot  
  


David grits his teeth and shoves his phone back into his pocket.

Because what makes it all worse, what David hates the most, is that everyone around here _loves_ Patrick.

He swaggers around the common room like he owns the place, helping people with computer issues and playing with the kids. David sulks from the corner whenever he’s in the room, trying to ignore the unexplained jealousy rising up like bile in the back of his throat when he watches Patrick interact with people so easily. He’s especially hard to watch in the sun, when he’s sat outside with his guitar and there are people listening to him like he’s some new-age Maria von Trapp with better hair and thicker thighs.

Alexis does this twee scrunchy thing with her nose and snuggles into her comforter when Patrick starts playing in his room on a night, blissfully unaware that he’s only doing it to annoy David even more.

“It’s like we have our own court jester or something in the room, David! Just imagine him sat in the corner like a leprechaun or a cute little bard.”

David absolutely does not want to imagine him sat in the corner. Even the very thought of it makes his stomach burn and his chest flutter. He grumbles under his blanket and turns himself over, shoving his pillow over his face so Alexis can’t see the deep flush on his face. Oh, and to block out the noise. Yeah, that too.

Because that’s the other annoying thing about Patrick. The actual thing David that hates the most. He’s so damn _beautiful_ and David knows deep down that he doesn’t mean to be annoying, because he looks like the kind of person who’s never told a lie that lasted longer than five minutes in his entire life. Him and his stupid eyes and his stupid guitar. His stupid fingers that fit so perfectly on the stupid board.

Actually, no. No. Scratch that again. That’s not the thing that David hates the most.

What he hates the most is that his stupid music has started to send David to sleep every night, and he didn’t even realise it.

* * *

“You never really know someone until you live with them,” Moira had once said to David, an addendum to some story about her early days of being married to Johnny. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, obviously. It’s one of those well-known phrases that people stuff their own lives into.

But David had never really felt it until he turned up to Ray’s office one morning, two days after leasing the general store, and saw the very same man with whom he’d bickered about fabric softener last night sat on the other side of the desk.

“Um. No offence, but what the fuck are you doing here?”

Patrick blinks at David in that infuriating way, like when David confronts him about hoarding the Rose’s Place mugs in his room and he wants to act all innocent.

“I work here, David,” he says placidly. “Been working here a while now.” As he reaches for a pen and a form, he mutters, “Of course, you’d know that if you bothered to spend more than five minutes with me where you’re not jumping down my throat.”

David breathes out, long and slow from his nose. It’s a typical dig, one that David is used to these days, but he’s also becoming horrifyingly aware that there are many ways that David would like to jump down Patrick’s throat and he needs to train himself out of the mindset. He’s actually started having Stevie spray him with cold water every time he has a thought about Patrick that isn’t filled with pure, bitter hatred.

“Okay. Ignoring all of that, why don’t we just get this meeting over with and then I can leave and not have to see you again today?”

Patrick shoots David a curious look, then. It reminds David of the other night, when he’d been lured outside by Stevie and her bottle of gin to sit with some of the residents as the sun set. Honey had asked Patrick if he knew Front Porch by Joy Williams on the guitar, and his eyes went all soft and golden as the sunset caught them and he’d said, “I’ll give it my best shot.” It’s kind of like that.

Aside from that fleeting moment of beauty, however, the meeting does not go well. Patrick has to fill in their address since David has no idea what it is, he can’t think of a business name for the life of him, and by the end he has no idea what he can even give this community where half the residents come and go so quickly.

He all but runs home afterwards, curling himself up in the empty reception and planting his face into the couch cushion. He lets out a long groan, feeling both on edge and slumped in despair at the same time. He’s not sure how long he stays there, but certainly long enough that the noise of other residents and reception doors opening are completely tuned out.

“You okay, there?”

David gasps and twists himself round. Patrick is stood in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning on the frame like he’s been there a long time.

David can’t even be bothered to snap. “No.”

“If I’m honest, David, you could have done a lot worse,” Patrick says, picking up the bag he’d dropped at his feet and crossing the reception to the foot of the stairs. “If you wanted to come back tomorrow and talk about it in more detail, I’m free from 12 ‘til 2.”

“Why are you even here right now, anyway?”

“I don’t have anything to do on a Wednesday afternoon,” Patrick says. “Usually I just come back here and –”

“And play your music, yeah,” David says. “I was wondering why Wednesdays get more guitar time than the rest of the week.”

“Well, now you know.”

David throws himself back down on the couch, ready to sulk and ignore Patrick, when he notices Patrick hovering like he’s going to ask something. He watches Patrick shove his hand into his pocket and clear his throat one too many times before bolting upright.

“Oh my God, what?”

When he focuses his gaze, Patrick is holding a joint with a sheepish look on his face.

“I get it from Carlo,” Patrick says. “He uses it for muscle pain after workouts. It – I mean, if you want to, we could – you just seem a bit stressed, that’s all. And I thought it might help.”

David thinks about it for what feels like minutes but is probably more like half a second. “Fine. But if you even think about picking up that fucking guitar while I’m in the room, I swear to God I’m running away and never coming back.”

Patrick smiles, warm and open, and David has to pretend he’s already high to avoid feeling whatever the hell he’s feeling right now.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

* * *

The problem with Patrick is that he’s so damn smooth. With everyone he meets, he seems to have them wrapped round his deft little fingers in five minutes. It doesn’t help that he smiles at literally everyone he sees, perfect teeth and all, or that he has a voice like beurre noisette. And David might be high, but there’s no way he’s going to say that out loud. Ever.

He barely says anything at all as he sits perched on the chair in the corner of Patrick’s room, watching the furniture ripple in front of him. Patrick is lying on his back on the bed, one of his knees bent, staring up at the ceiling as he takes long, slow pulls of the joint.

“Local things,” David says suddenly, and Patrick lifts his head. “That’s the kind of thing people would want to take away with them after a couple of weeks or months here. Local art and crafts. Scents. Things that won’t die out.”

Patrick sits up in full, swaying slightly. A lazy smile creeps onto his face. “See, I was right. I knew you were onto something.”

“Pshh, this was not you. This is my idea.”

“I know, I know!” Patrick says, holding up his hands. “I’m just…wondering if you would have reached that conclusion, if it wasn’t for me asking you to give a description of the business.”

Scandalised, David laughs out of shock. “Oh-ho, no. You did _not_ just go there.”

“Mm, except I did.”

When Patrick lies back, David leaps up and snatches the joint out of his hand. Patrick plants a hand in the middle of David’s chest and sends him flying backwards, thumping on his ass onto the floor. If he wasn’t high, he probably wouldn’t still be laughing. But he is high, and it’s funny, so in a matter of seconds he and Patrick are rolling on opposite sides of the bed, dropping ash everywhere and wheezing with laughter.

After the long, companionable silence that follows, Patrick finally says, “I could help you out if you like.”

David snorts. “What would you do? Let people put a coin in your mouth and play them a little tune?”

“No, I can get you a grant,” Patrick says. “There’s one you can get for small businesses like that. You need to apply, but I’d be happy to assist you with the applications.”

David remembers the YU hoodie Patrick was wearing the first time they met and decides that he trusts him and his business degree. If he’s been able to annoy David for nearing three months now, then David reckons consistency won’t be a concern. “Fine, you can help me. And I’d – um…I guess I should say thank you?”

“I guess you should,” Patrick says, and when he smiles David feels like he’s just swallowed warm, sweet whiskey that’s gently toasting him from the inside. He shuffles himself upwards so that he’s sat cross-legged on the end of the bed, face to face with Patrick.

“And I guess I should thank you as well, considering,” Patrick continues.

“What do you mean?”

Patrick shrugs. He looks like he sobers up a bit as he gestures around the room and the window beyond. “For this place. For making it happen, and doing everything you do for these people. People like me.”

David closes his eyes, drops his shoulders. “No, I can’t take credit for any of that. This is all Stevie. Honestly.”

Patrick frowns. “So it’s not you who goes out and buys extra milk every time I complain about you stealing it? The oat kind that I once mentioned offhand I prefer over normal milk?”

David’s stomach clenches with embarrassment. “I – nope. No, that’s definitely Stevie. She absolutely goes and gets your oat milk on a, what is it? Monday morning? Yup. Mm-hm.”

“Ah, right. Impressive, seeing as she does the cleaning on a Monday morning. Who knew she could be in two places at once?”

Again, if he wasn’t high, David would have stormed out by now. But he is high. He’s here, high in Patrick’s room in the almost-home they share, and everything is compelling him to stay.

“What do you mean people like you?” David says. “We get all sorts of residents here. I don’t think I’ve ever met two alike.”

Patrick looks out the window. “I just mean it’s a nice stop-off place. No one’s going to be here forever – no, not even you, David,” he adds when David gives him a dubious look, “so it’s nice to know there are people who know how it feels to be in between things in your life. I’ve been looking for somewhere like this for a while, hoping it was the kind of place I could actually call home for a while.”

David’s struck with a memory, back when the county started picking up on the news of the Roses and the strange place they were staying.

“You were one of the very first people who asked,” he says. “Your username was YU something.”

“Class of 2007,” Patrick confirms. “I was disappointed for a while when someone said it was just a motel, because it was only five hours away. I didn’t know if I’d ever find someplace to stay without committing to a house or sticking around at home for any longer than I had to. Then one day I came back onto the message board, and everyone was talking about the Rose’s Place.”

David shifts where he’s sitting, twinging with guilt. Whatever Patrick was leaving behind, he was obviously running away from it.

“Sorry if I…you know, kind of made your life hell at the start,” David says, the apology coming surprisingly easier than most do.

Patrick’s expression softens. He breathes in deep, lies back, and murmurs the next part so quietly that David barely catches it.

“Oh, David. You did anything but.”

* * *

Turns out, starting a business with someone you live with is both a blessing and a curse. David doesn’t let Patrick anywhere near the luxury hand towels or cashmere scarves after witnessing the frankly atrocious way he folds his laundry, but he knows he’ll always be able to count on him to stock the fridge. Patrick is appalled at David’s automatic reflex to tell customers to go away when they arrive prematurely, but every morning he comes into work with a look of awe on his face at how David’s layout for the store is coming together.

And as it also turns out, taking time away from Rose’s Place and hanging out in the store is finally forcing David to abandon the last of his staunch anti-Patrick rhetoric. He can’t keep it up for long when Patrick is memorising his coffee orders and asking David if they should order pizza for dinner. It feels backwards, but still it’s domestic and settled and puts David at ease in a way he hasn’t been his entire life.

It’s going so well, in fact, that David doesn’t really have any idea why he says it.

Well, that’s not true. He does. It’s self-sabotage.

With every passing day, the fear that Patrick will leave town. That he’ll want to get further away from the past life that he’s explained gradually over the past few weeks, and David wouldn’t blame him if he did.

So he asks Patrick what he plans to do when he finally leaves this place, and he looks away before he can catch the genuine confusion and hurt on Patrick’s face.

“What do you mean? Did you think –”

“You know, I just thought you’d probably have plans after we open. What with your – degree, and your – your money, and everything.”

David winces as soon as it comes out. Maybe there’s a part of him that’s bitter; it’s not exactly false information that Patrick could just leave whenever he wanted, while David and his family are here indefinitely.

“You think I – should I have plans, David? Do you have plans for – I don’t know, another person to come work here?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just thought –”

Patrick leans his elbows on the desk, looking out the window. David still doesn’t dare look at him in case he just ends up staring into the hole he’s dug.

“I don’t _want_ you to, I was just wondering if you had ever thought about – listen, your options are open if you want to leave. You’ve done so much for me here, but I don’t want you to think there’s anything keeping you here.”

Maybe that’s done the job. He finally looks up, but what he sees is so much worse. It’s not confusion, not even hurt, but anger. Genuine anger.

“You seriously think there’s nothing keeping me here, David? Do you actually think after all this time I’d –”

Patrick cuts himself off, his hands coming down on the edge of the counter in defeat. He pauses a moment, then grabs his bag.

“Forget it.”

“Patrick, I –”

“Just forget it, David!”

The door rattles on impact when Patrick slams it shut, and if it didn’t remind David that he really needs to get it fixed then there would have been nothing stopping him from breaking down in tears.

* * *

“I really fucked things up with Patrick today.”

David picks at a stain on the carpet that’s hardened over time. He has no idea what it used to be and really doesn’t want to know.

Sitting with their backs to the wall, David and Stevie are passing a bottle of wine back and forth in the office. The yellowish light is flickering overhead like a domestic horror movie and rain has started pummelling the roof, making David feel like he’s stuck in a bunker.

“You think so? What did you do?”

“I guess I kind of implied that he shouldn’t be here anymore, and that I didn’t want him to work with me after the store opens.”

Stevie looks more outraged than he thought she would.

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re meant to be on my side here!”

She snorts loudly. “I can’t be on your side when you’re hurting him and yourself! You can’t say that to him, especially not at the moment.”

David narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, at the moment?”

Stevie doesn’t meet his eye. She takes the wine off him and has a drink.

“What do you mean, Stevie?”

Stevie tips her head back until it’s resting on the wall. “Okay, fine. I may have been talking to him about…stuff. It was a lot of ‘where’s David’ texts at first, but recently he’s been sulking to me about everything. Apparently his guitar broke last night, and this morning he mentioned he was worried you wouldn’t care if he left this place _before_ your whole drama went down. So that will have all but confirmed it for him.”

When David was eleven, he got hit in the stomach by a football that flew straight out of the grounds and into the bleachers, where he promptly threw up on his very first girlfriend. He reckons he feels about ten times worse right now. A physical gut punch followed by roiling waves of mortification at even the idea of Patrick being unhappy. And more so that he caused it.

“Oh no.”

“Yeah, oh no,” Stevie bites back. “You’re gonna have to fix this, David. It’s bad enough that I have one of you pulling on my arm with your problems, but both of you? No way.”

David knows that deep down Stevie also cares about the both of them, but he doesn’t dare bring it up right now. They’re not drunk enough for that.

“You said his guitar broke?”

“Beyond repair, apparently,” Stevie says, quoting with her fingers. “Honestly, he’s like a dramatic little baked potato when he’s angry. All mushy and crumpled and steaming out the ears. It’s great to watch.”

They finish off the wine in relative silence. David staggers back to his room a little after one in the morning, plans gently simmering at the corners of his wine-sloppy brain. He might not know much about guitars or sincere amendment, but he knows how he feels. He just hopes that’s enough for now.

* * *

Patrick doesn’t come into work the next day, or the day after that.

Stevie tells David she hasn’t seen him, which is what really sends him panicking. He also hasn’t sent her any texts. So David doesn’t go into the store either, too busy fighting off the pit of dread in his stomach to open boxes of hand creams or answer calls from potential vendors.

Alexis doesn’t seem to notice as she potters about the room, doing her hair and makeup for work.

“What do you think about hosting a little barbecue tomorrow night, David? We could invite everyone, make the most of the sun.”

David looks outside. It has been getting nicer lately, the June sun settling warm and gold over the town.

“Maybe,” he says absently.

“Ooh, I’ll get Patrick to bring his guitar! He can give us all the soft, sweet, folksy vibes. What do you think? I’ll text him now –”

“Don’t!”

Alexis looks up from the mirror and frowns at him. “Why? Aw, did you guys break up?”

“We weren’t together, Alexis,” David says, glaring at her when she shoots him an _oh, please_ look. “Just…don’t text him. I have no idea where he is. Also, his guitar is broken, so that’s not happening.”

Alexis pouts. “Oh, poor thing! There’s a music shop in Elmdale, you know. Ted takes his mandolin there. Tell him to go!”

“I can’t. The guitar is either in his room which he is lying dead in, or it’s strapped to the back of his car which he’s currently driving out of the country. Those are the only two viable options.”

Alexis stops applying her balm and side-eyes David, rubbing her lips together in a way that only she could make look conspiratorial. “Or…you could break into his room, take it there yourself and get it fixed for him.”

David scoffs. “Yeah, that’s not happening. You know I hate that guitar.”

“Well, Patrick doesn’t hate it. And you don’t hate Patrick.”

“As if Stevie would ever give me the key.”

“Ugh, come on, David!” Alexis smacks a hand down on the tabletop. “Who taught who how to cut a key that could get you into any of the Bloomfield’s three wine cellars? Who?”

David sighs. “I taught you.”

“Exactly, so act like it.”

“You know I don’t have to do that, right? I could just bribe Stevie for the key.”

“Metaphors, David!”

Alexis stands up and grabs her bag, air-booping David on the nose from a distance.

“When I see you tonight, you’d better have a fun little story to tell me. Or else.”

* * *

David has no idea why he’s taking questionable romantic advice from Alexis of all people, but he does it anyway. In fact, he goes a step further; he doesn’t even ask Stevie for the key, he just takes it from the spare drawer in her office while she’s on her lunch break.

He takes a deep breath before entering Patrick’s room. He’d feel worse about it if he hadn’t been here once before. And he practically lives here. And he _technically_ helps Stevie with the cleaning sometimes, so…yeah.

He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or relieved that Patrick isn’t here. Probably relieved, because that would have been one hell of an awkward conversation. He hasn’t moved out, but there’s an empty drawer open and the bed is made like he’s gone to stay somewhere for a few days. The guitar is propped up by the window, the strings all curled and snapped. David picks it up and tweaks the loose pegs. There’s a hairline fracture along the fretboard that looks like it would shatter with one good smack. It’s not beyond repair, thankfully, so he stows it under his arm carefully and leaves, locking the door behind him before he moves on with his stealth mission.

It doesn’t help David’s on-edge mood that the radio on the way to Elmdale is playing exactly the kind of music that would send David to sleep every night. He’s worried he’ll never get this again; this strange, funny, way he’s done things with this strange, funny man. Patrick is everything David never expected to turn up in a place like this. Earnest, real, earthy and adorable and tooth-rottingly sweet even when he’s not gaining anything from it.

He pulls up at the music shop. It’s a dusty, crooked old thing with sun-faded records in the window, but it’ll do. The man behind the counter with a handlebar moustache and bolo tie looks like he’ll probably return the guitar in a better condition than it was before the break, so David leaves him to it and heads to the nearest grocery store to buy string lights and boxes of potato salad and bread rolls for the barbecue.

The sun has dipped low by the time David gets a call from the music shop man to say he’s finished. He’s on his way back, laden with plastic bags, when he gets a text:

Stevie  
  
he's here  
  


David’s heart jumps into his throat. He keeps it together until he’s paid the man and retrieved the guitar, but takes up a constant chant of _fuckfuckfuckshitshitfuck_ all the way back to Schitt’s Creek. He props his phone up on the dashboard so he can glance at Stevie’s incoming texts from the corner of his eye:

Stevie  
  
Alexis told me what you did!!! wtf I’m so excited to watch this go down  
  
and don’t you DARE put that guitar outside his room and leave.   
  
tell him what you’re really feeling  
  


When he’s back, David hands over the groceries to Alexis and then goes back to the car and sits there until the sky is denim blue. He also took a mini bottle of gin & tonic from his bedside cabinet when he went inside, so he’s sipping it for courage as the guitar sits ready beside him.

He feels sick. He has no idea what’s going to happen. Or what’s going to be said, where Patrick has been these past few days, anything. He just has no idea.

Thankfully, the alcohol starts to work and he lets instinct take over, finally scrambling out of the car. Holding the guitar carefully he makes his way through the reception, ignoring Stevie’s gasp. She follows him to the foot of the stairs and looks up expectantly.

Before he can stop himself, David knocks on the door.

There’s a pause, as though Patrick recognises the knock, before the door swings open. Patrick is there, looking rumpled and gorgeous in a hoodie and sweatpants like his very first night here, and he stares at David and the guitar with a bewildered look on his face.

“David, what –”

“Don’t go,” David says suddenly.

There’s a moment of silence as David hands Patrick back his guitar. Their fingers brush for a fraction of a second, sending sparks right up David’s arm.

“How did you…?”

“Doesn’t matter,” David says, waving a hand. He swallows thickly before continuing. “Listen. I don’t know what you think, but I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here and help me with the store and make me lose sleep.”

“Make you lose sleep – what, is that because of the guitar or…something else?”

“Yes.”

David barely knows what he’s saying anymore, but he doesn’t care. Patrick is looking at his guitar with wonder, tracing a finger over the fretboard, plucking the new strings. His eyes are all sad and soft and David can hardly bear it.

Though he’s smiling, Patrick says, “David, I’ve already found an apartment.”

David’s stomach drops. He should have expected this. He might have known that Patrick would find somewhere – and it’s fine, it really is, because he’s free to do what he wants and he’s probably capable of so much more and –

“David!”

“Okay, I wasn’t sure if any of that was coming out loud, thank you for confirming that.”

“David, you’re gonna have to calm down,” Patrick says, stepping forward and gently prying David’s hands away from his face. David can feel himself blushing. He wishes he wasn’t tipsy right now.

“I’m going to show you something.”

Patrick’s voice is as soft as the rest of him. David’s never heard it like that before. It’s beautiful.

He pulls on his shoes, and David hears Stevie scurry away as they come down the stairs. Patrick leads David to his car, his eyes gleaming as he starts the ignition.

The drive is quiet but for the snatches of breeze and drifting country music as they move slowly through town with the windows open.

“How long is this going to be? I can deal with an hour there and back, but –”

Patrick shushes him gently as the car pulls into a leafy parking lot around two minutes later. “Trust me.”

“What are we stopping off for? Patrick –”

Patrick hops out the car and comes round to open the door for him.

“Just trust me, David.”

And as soon as they’ve rounded the corner and a small, red-bricked building comes into view, lit softly by the few streetlights around them, David wishes he’d held his tongue.

“I’ve been staying with Ray these past few days,” Patrick says, and if David wasn’t feeling a million things right now he would want to laugh at how dramatic Patrick is. “We talked a lot about businesses and – other things, and he helped me find a place that’s a bit more permanent. So I can prove that – yeah.”

David turns towards him, reaching out to trace the outside of Patrick’s coat with his fingers. “Patrick, you didn’t have to get a place here just to prove something to me.”

“No, I really do want to,” Patrick says. “I want to be here with the store. With you.”

“I’m so sorry,” David says on a sigh, leaning in until he’s two inches away from Patrick. “I never wanted you to go. I just got scared you would, and so I tried pushing you away like I do with most things, then I realised that was a bad idea because you’re too close to –”

“You couldn’t push me away even if you tried, David,” Patrick says, and before David can argue Patrick cuts them both off with a kiss.

David winds his arms around Patrick’s neck as he leans into it. He’s clinging on for dear life now that he’s here, Patrick’s here, kissing him and telling him he’s not going anywhere. Now that this man, who’s been far too close to David for four months, is finally exactly where he wants him.

Before David can get too lost in it, he pulls away and asks, “But just to be sure, you’re definitely not asking me to move in with you, are you?”

“Lord, no.”

“Thank God,” he says, before leaning in to kiss Patrick again.

* * *

What follows is probably the best summer of David’s life.

Patrick does bring his guitar to the barbecue the next day, all fixed and tuned and suddenly sounding ten times more beautiful than it ever did above David’s head at midnight. He leans his head on Patrick’s shoulder under the string lights, a full paper plate resting on his lap, and tries hard not to give rise to Stevie’s smug I-told-you-so looks but in the end he can’t help but smile at her.

Rose’s Place continues to grow, with business booming in the way it always does; ebbing and flowing, a calm in-and-out weave of people from all walks of life, each just as welcome as the last. When Patrick leaves, David’s glad for the distance. It means he gets to feel excited about going to Patrick’s after work, gets to kiss him on a morning without being annoyed that he wasted all the hot water with his long showers an hour beforehand. And when he misses Patrick’s guitar, he organises an open mic night under the guise of attracting more customers – even though that’s not really a problem – and lets the music wash over him, nostalgia plucking at his veins for a time when his boyfriend was just the annoying guy upstairs.

It’s okay, anyway. David has a feeling he won’t be missing it for very long. One day soon they’ll have four walls of their own, where they can bicker over milk forever and Patrick can sing David to sleep, strumming his guitar in the evening light.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
